


Save Me from Drowning

by pushingcrazies



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 22:48:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/313021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushingcrazies/pseuds/pushingcrazies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly could use a little cheering up this holiday season. Luckily, Lestrade is there to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Save Me from Drowning

By the time Lestrade had finished helping John and Mrs. Hudson search the flat for drugs, he was more than sober enough to drive and only too willing to do so. Under different circumstances, he probably would have stuck around to see how Sherlock was doing, but he was feeling less than charitable towards the consulting detective at the moment.

Besides, he knew that Sherlock only felt the compulsion to take drugs when he was bored, not depressed. Depression begat creativity; Lestrade would not be surprised if Sherlock started a new, intricate experiment or took up composing again. These were things John should have learned by now.

Well, no…that wasn’t fair, was it? It had taken Lestrade a good six years to figure out Sherlock causes and consequences. Mycroft, on the other hand, definitely should have known better. But then, Mycroft had never had to personally nurse Sherlock through withdrawal or overdose. He preferred to let the lesser of Sherlock’s associates (read: Lestrade) perform those tasks.

No, there was no real point in Lestrade sticking around 221B any longer than necessary, so he bid the residents a Merry Christmas and climbed into his car. Once there, however, he realised he had nowhere to actually go. His flat seemed a lonely prospect, now that Sherlock had been so kind to announce to the whole world (well, that may have been a bit of an exaggeration, but one must be careful what one lets slip in front of John and his blog-happy fingers) what his wife was doing this evening while he was at their party. Friends were out of the question (they had their own celebrations which he had already declined), family too far away, and his coworkers would only receive him with a chorus of “I told you so”s. The way Lestrade saw it, he had two choices: head straight for St. Bart’s in the hopes of heading off Sherlock and offering to go for a pint (and probably saving the two brothers from killing each other in the process) or drive around the city for a while, waste petrol, and still end up at St. Bart’s because of some subconscious sense of duty to the little rat bastard.

Lestrade started his car and, with a heavy, self-depreciating sigh, headed for the hospital.

By the time he arrived there, however, all he found was Mycroft sitting on a bench in a corridor, looking about as old as Lestrade felt. “He’s already left,” Mycroft said without even looking up.

“Was it her, then?” Lestrade asked.

“He was able to identify her.” Mycroft stood up and nodded at Lestrade. “Merry Christmas, Gregory.” He headed for the exit, then paused and turned around. “Miss Hooper is still here, however. In case you were wondering.”

He hadn’t been, actually. He hadn’t even known she’d been the one called in to do the autopsy. How drunk had he gotten, exactly? Well, he was here now; might as well make sure it wasn’t a wasted trip. He followed the hallway down into the morgue. Molly startled slightly when he entered; he supposed she hadn’t been expecting anyone after the Holmes brothers left. “Oh, hello,” she said in that sweet, wavering voice that made him want to wrap her up in a blanket and put her away somewhere she couldn’t get hurt by all the Sherlocks and Moriarties of the world. “Sherlock already left.”

“I know. I came down to make sure he behaved himself this time,” Lestrade said.

“Yes, he did. He was being quite kind, actually.” She laughed. “Don’t know how long it’ll last, so I suppose I ought to appreciate it while it does.”

Lestrade didn’t laugh. “Molly,” he said. “You shouldn’t listen to those things he says. Your mouth, your…body…it’s all perfect and any man who can’t see that is blind or stupid or – in Sherlock’s case –both.”

Molly smiled. “It’s very nice of you to say so.”

“I mean it,” he said, trying to sound as earnest as possible. “You’re gorgeous.”

Molly’s lip trembled and she didn’t look him in the eye, focusing instead on the sheet-wrapped body before her. Her hand brushed down the body’s side from ribs to hips; and what was that about, Lestrade wondered.

“It’s a little hard to believe you when the most observant man in the world doesn’t think so,” she said, her voice breaking, eyes watering.

Lestrade drew himself up to his full height and rocked back on his heels a bit. “Right. Let me tell you something about that ‘most observant man in the world.’ He’s an absolute idiot. No, I’m serious,” he added when she giggled disbelievingly. “A right wanker, he is. His idea of beauty is an oddly-shaped blood splatter.” He grinned as Molly laughed outright at that one. “The only way to attract his attention, it seems, is to either outsmart him or wear the most god awful jumpers on the face of the planet.”

“I tried that,” she said, parting her lab coat to reveal a jumper to rival any of John’s. “Didn’t work.”

Lestrade laughed. “Then honestly, I have no idea what he sees in John Watson.”

Molly’s smile disappeared. “No, John’s a wonderful man, he’s always so nice. I don’t mean to begrudge him-“

“Okay, okay,” Lestrade said soothingly, laying his hands on her shoulders to calm her. “I didn’t mean it. I’m just saying, Sherlock doesn’t live in the real world like we do. Because if he did, he’d be mad not to want to have you and keep you all to himself.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, laying her hand on one of his.

“What you need,” he said, “is a little more self-confidence.” He drew her up to her full height. “Shoulders back, chin up.” He lifted her face to look at him. Her eyes were wide as they gazed into his. “There you are,” he whispered gruffly. “You look beautiful when you cry.”

Her mouth twisted in a self-deprecating smile. “No one looks good when they cry.”

“Oh, sure, when they’re full on sobbing and their faces are all red and noses are running…” He brushed a hand through her hair, pushing it out of her face, the better to see her eyes. “But you should see yourself. You look like a movie star in a heartbreaking romantic scene.” He ran a finger down her face to her lips. He had no idea what Sherlock meant by “too small.” They were beautifully shaped and just the right size and right now they were parting expectantly around her laboured breath. Later, he wouldn’t remember making a conscious decision to kiss her. He just knew that one moment they were standing there, the next, his lips were on hers and God help him, kissing his wife had never felt like this, even when they were a brand new couple. It was slow and soft, tongues caressing rather than fighting, lips cajoling instead of demanding. He could taste the remnants of her lipstick lingering in the tiny cracks. Her hands had found their way to his hip and back, while his were busy carding through her hair. A wave of arousal crashed through him, bringing him back to reality.

He broke away.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be.”

He stared at her for a moment, then nodded, his mouth still slightly open. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, I’m not sorry.”

“Good.” She smiled at him.

“I better be going.”

“Alright.”

“My wife’ll be home soon.”

Her smile turned sad. He wanted nothing more to make it happy again. “Right. Your wife. I hope you two have a lovely holiday.”

“To be honest? I doubt it,” he said.

She nodded. She understood. “I’ll see you after the new year.”

He turned and left without another word. He wondered if his wife would be upset when he decided to cancel their holiday plans and spent the day researching divorce lawyers. Honestly? Probably not.


End file.
